


The Pull of the Tide

by Turtle_ier



Series: The Water [3]
Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drama & Romance, Emotionally Repressed, Fluff, Guilt, M/M, Porn With Plot, References to Depression, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 08:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20702642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtle_ier/pseuds/Turtle_ier
Summary: Dakin, stumped after his encounters with Posner and Scripps, reflects on his conflicts, his emotions, and generally has a good long look inwards at what actually makes him who he is.Just when he seems lost, someone finds him.Excerpt:It was himself, with the same hair and same eyes, but for the first time he saw himself, not the failure to be someone he was not.He stared a moment longer, waiting for something, but nothing came, so he left.





	1. Chapter 1

December came in the way that only winter does, with a slow but undeniable end to the year and the slow but inevitable rise in spirits as Christmas and its festivities came closer. For university students, however, the increasing speed of deadlines drawing closer became more and more upfront, and with other things on Dakin’s mind he had to admit it was all rather overwhelming. Not that he’d admit to struggling. 

As he stared out the library window and watched the first snow of the winter fall, his arms laden with books and novels and journals, he thought to himself briefly about the past three or so months. September, October, November, and now December - it all went so quickly. He shifted, uncomfortable, but still stood like a tree at the end of the row of books, staring blankly as the white took over the little green below. Gently, he lowered his arms, letting his haul rest on the windowsill. He didn't know exactly why this was the moment that he had chosen for contemplation, but now that he was finally addressing it, he daren’t disturb it. 

It was rare for him to be stopped in his tracks like this, so he knew he had to make the most of the moment. 

A new year meant that he might be able to fix some of this year’s mistakes. He didn't really think of them as mistakes, but when was the last time he was right about this kind of thing? After ending his two-year relationship with Fiona he’d only managed to keep a relationship for a few months. The closest he’d come to an active participant in a relationship since Fiona was with Irwin, and they hadn't even _kissed_.

Maybe Posner was right for once. Maybe he did need to get his act together. 

These days people valued long term relationships over short term ones. The longer you could hold it together the more admirable you were to other people. They thought of you as stable, sensible, caring, etcetera. His vision shifted, and instead of seeing the snow outside, he saw his own reflection. Without changing his features, he examined himself, looking at the way his eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were turned down at the corners. He then looked into his own eyes, seeing them stare straight back with equal ferocity. 

Was this him? He looked so upset, and the dark circles under his eyes weren't as subtle as he had been hoping. 

Was he the type of man to wear concealer? It might help with the dark circles, but that wouldn't pull up the root of the weed, and it would eventually just get worse. 

Was it the lack of sleep? Too much, perhaps? There wasn't really an in between. Even today he’d slept in until eleven o’clock, while the day before he was woken up by a police siren at four and couldn't fall asleep again. If that _was_the problem, then why wasn't it such an issue in Sheffield? What had changed?

Was it the thing with Scripps? 

Was it Posner?

It couldn't have been either of them, he hadn't spoken to Scripps in a few weeks, and Posner was always wrong anyway. What did he know anyway, all he did was quote dead poets and talk about love. 

Dakin didn't need love or romance. Truth be told he didn't even really need sex. He had himself, and for now that was enough.

Thinking about it, maybe he shouldn't have snapped at Posner like that. Thinking back on what he had said, he realised just how big-headed and unfavourable he came across and cringed. Now that Posner had gotten over his infatuation, everything Dakin said could be used as evidence against him, and what he’d said would be no exception. He was foolish talking like that, and now he would be seen exactly that; foolish. 

Well, Colette said it best:

“_You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm_.” 

And, well, it was hard _not_to be enthusiastic in the heat of the moment. 

Dakin shook himself mentally and picked his books up off the windowsill, and casting one final, almost longing, look out to the serine snowscape he turned around completely and went to the front desk to check out. 

He needed someone to talk to, he realised, because this was getting ridiculous. 

One could only live inside their own head for so long, and Dakin realised this while staring out the widow absentmindedly again. This was the fifteenth time he’d caught himself, and if he didn't get this work sorted, he’d be behind on three essays instead of just two. It was the third now, and the snow was still lightly falling. 

_Snowball effect, _he thought, and then shook his head. 

“_I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself._” He quoted out loud, and leaned back in his chair, listening to the way it creaked. 

A little self-reflection was in order, he thought, and looking at the cracked ceiling was as good a place as any to get started. Looking out at the shoddy back garden, and then further onto Port Meadow, Dakin thought back to his own room back at home, and how it looked over a less shoddy back garden and then a small brook behind. What would it look like now? As snow covered and frosty, or perhaps greener? It depended on whether the holly had been cut back as his mother had said. 

He’d had flings before any serious relationships happened, but those didn't really count. 

First of all, Fiona. She treated him well, called out his attitude, and generally was too good for him. At the time when she cut them off, he thought ill of her and assumed that she was doing it because of his fling with Irwin. Maybe she was, but she made no indication of it when she was trying to end it. Her reasons were simple: he was going to Oxford, she wasn't interested in him the way she was two years ago when they first started dating, and she wanted to end it before either of them lost complete interest.

Looking back, it was sensible, but at the time he felt like she’d taken his pride and shook it for loose change. He knew that Fiona had moved on - her friend, June, had mentioned it to Lockwood’s sister - and now he felt glad more than anything. 

Then there was Irwin. They were never a real ‘thing’ so to speak, but he felt significant enough in his mind to be included. For example, Irwin was Dakin’s first consideration towards men, and also his first interest. To be honest, it was a doomed thing from the start. He was dating Fiona, Hector had been found out, and Irwin was his teacher. It was all a matter of the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Dakin thought to himself that if he had met Irwin now and not then, he may have followed through with the blowie. But as it stood, Irwin was out of the picture and Dakin was in an entirely different city and state of mind. 

Once reaching Oxford there was the flurry of girls in the first year - Jessica, Anna, Lucy, Sharon, Jody - and then a couple of blokes - John and Paul (and yes, at the same time). Seven people within around six months was honestly atrocious once he paused to think about it, and honestly until now he hadn't. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, and relayed how long he had spent with each. 

Jessica was a month, Anna around the same, then there was a break. Lucy was three weeks before she thought she could do better and he kissed Sharon to spite her, and Sharon lasted around the same. Jody was at around two before he fucked Scripps, and when she found out she flipped her lid and stormed off. John and Paul were more than happy to welcome him in, but something just didn't feel right and he declined any further chances he had with them should be put on hold. They didn't argue. 

In between each of these people he’d been with others sexually, and sometimes he couldn't remember who they were. It was in all honestly quite frightening. 

This, he thought, might be the issue. Was Scripps just another name on this list now? Was Posner one as well? 

He’d assume not. It pained him to admit it but Posner was someone he’d consider a friend, and with Scripps he would go so far as to call him something further. Best friend sprung to mind, but even then, that felt lacklustre. Honestly, if he didn't know any better, he’d call this a ‘midlife crisis’, but he didn't want to think about how he, at the age of 20, was having one. He didn't want to die at 40. 

He didn't want to die at all, to be honest. 

But that’s all life was, wasn't it? Living just long enough to make an impression as big as you could before you disappeared entirely and all that was left of you was your name and a list of things you achieved. So, what did it matter? If he was going to be staring down the metaphorical gun that was life for his entire existence, then what was the point in trying to be with somebody along the way? Was it to ease the inevitable? Or was it to have someone to share the experience with?

He smacked his palm to his forehead, _of course that was it!_

The chair creaked, and commonly Dakin pulled his head back up but it was too late- the serene landscape before him moved down and he fell backwards and out of the chair, landing in a pile with a huge thud.

One of his flatmates yelled from downstairs about the noise, but he didn't notice, too busy grumbling to himself as he got up and pulled his leather jacket on, then he did the same with his boots before stomping down the stairs. 

“What was that?” Lewis asked from the kitchen and he stalked past.

“Nothing. Chair fell over,” he replied, already halfway out the door. 

What was it to him, anyway? What Dakin did was what Dakin pleased. 

Storming out, Dakin stalked up the empty street, pulling the lapels of his jacket up to ward off the wind. He was only half successful however, as the next gust blew one side down and the other straight into his ear. He growled, held them down, and walked on towards the river. At this current moment in time, around ten in the morning on a Tuesday, it was completely still, and Dakin realised the extent to which he hated the silence. Normally there’s be the sound of traffic from a few streets over, but because of the snow absorbing the noise it felt too quiet. Finally reaching the river he leaned over the railing, the march that he made up there knocking the wind right out of him. The water below rushed past as the river was swollen from all the snow, and he could see his own reflection looking right back. 

It almost felt like he’d been followed by it, as ridiculous as that sounded. These days it felt like whenever he looked at something even a little bit shiny, he could see himself staring right back, and although that was as stupid as it sounded, it got worse when he realised that the face that stared back was one of judgement. Dakin smirked at himself in a bitter sort of way, and mouthed:

_And the pool answered, 'But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored.'_

It was himself, with the same hair and same eyes, but for the first time he saw himself, not the failure to be someone he was not.

He stared a moment longer, waiting for something, but nothing came, so he left. 

What was _wrong _with him?

Turning down someone easy, someone available and willing? Unheard of. Doing so after about a month of nothing but his own right hand? Unthinkable. So why did he make eyes with the woman across the bar (or girl - she was probably his age), draw her closer by the meat of her thigh, and then left that night with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and his hands in his pockets, letting her walk back to the crowd and letting himself out into the bitter night. 

What was _wrong _with him?

He stopped on Friars Entry, taking a moment to lean on a low wall and to pull the cigarette from his mouth, blowing out a low breath of smoke and water vapour into the frozen air. It was difficult not to press his hand to his head and sighed in despair, thinking back on his own actions in the moment - the way he froze up as soon as his hand brushed higher than her skirt, and how his eyes went wide like he was doing it for the first time and not the fiftieth. 

This time, he did actually press his hand to his face and sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, somewhere along his little journey of self-pity, Dakin wandered into the only person he really genuinely thought he’d never see again.

The wet streets reflected the dreary November sky, the great sheet of clouds covering the earth in white snowfall as he walked to the castle alone. He might not be old, but with his stooped shoulders, hair hidden by the popped collar of his jacket, and eyes cast to the ground, he felt like he’s existed forever. In some ways he supposes that he has - he has only known this word for his own lifetime, and no longer - but something about wandering half unfamiliar and half familiar streets brings him back to the lull that is life.

There’s nothing planned for him in the next few weeks. There hadn't been anything for the past few days. It was rare for someone, especially someone as busy as Dakin, to have nothing, absolutely nothing, to look forward to.

So, he was going to the museum. It had an exhibition on, which apparently would be discussing university life at Oxford during the second world war, which, compared to nothing, seemed pretty interesting when he signed up. Now, in the sleet, he wished he hadn't bothered but made the trip anyway.

But he might as well, since he was in the area anyway. 

(He hadn't been.) 

Wandering the halls of the museum, looking at the prints of war posters and brown-stained photographs, people swished to and fro behind him as if they had something more important to do than come to this talk that was going on. The photograph that he was looking at in particular was an aerial shot of a British warship being hauled back into harbour, it’s bridge and deck obviously damaged and the little tug boat in front of it breaking the waves. Supposedly, it was near to Liverpool, but he didn't recognise the port. Apparently, the Captain who had died in battle was a Dean before conscription, but his name apparently wasn't important enough for the plaque next to the photograph. 

It was weird, seeing the boat in action. It of course _happened,_though, in more than one sense of the word. Realistically he knew the British couldn't exactly leave thousands of pounds worth of weaponry in the channel or the Pacific, but seeing it in action was another thing. It’s the part of war, or even life, that wasn't usually considered or in focus.

The parts where you just had to pick up the pieces and move on. 

And moving on in this case managed to win the war. 

He sniffed, suddenly feeling cold.

Moving on, when they didn’t know the outcome, was the only thing that they _could _do. It wasn’t a happy thing to consider- the future, that is- but it was better than nothing.

The atmosphere in the room changed, and Dakin turned around to see what the fuss was about, only to see the rest of the people shuffling into the hall where the actual talk was. He watched, then caught himself and followed.

The hall, dimly lit with lines of ugly blue-backed benches, stretched downwards like a lecture theatre, with a small podium and a spotlight at the bottom. The whole thing could maybe seat forty to fifty people, but even so there were gaps between most of the people sitting, and Dakin chose not to sit closer to the light, instead selecting the one closest to the wall at the very top, next to the entrance to the theatre. There were a few moments where people shuffled to their seats, and then shuffled in their seats, but then quiet washed over the audience and a man, blonde and lean and older than he looked, hobbled into view. 

Dakin’s insides shrivelled and blossomed at once for there, about fifteen metres in front of him, stood Thomas Irwin. 

His old teacher didn't hesitate in beginning the talk, going into a spiel about this, that, and the other, but Dakin wasn't listening - his eyes too wide and mind too blank to do anything but watch Irwin’s hand movements and casual form of speaking, holding attention where it really didn't belong, and clutching a cane with his other hand, slanted but upright. In the darkness of the lecture theatre, Dakin could see the shine of his hair, the gloss of saliva on his lips, and most strikingly, the dark, unhappy circles under his eyes. 

And despite Dakin’s upbringing telling him constantly to observe and use it to arm himself, all he could do in that moment was let his defences lie and witness the fearsome quell within him. Like the tide, his stomach swooped, and he schemed along with the roll of it on foreign and unknown territorial shores. 

It was settled, then. He’d ask.

_“Oh Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!” _

_“Not good enough! Don’t mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.”_

“I must admit, out of everywhere that I’d expected to see you here wasn't what I had in mind.”

Irwin didn't stutter or stall, instead focusing on stirring the sugar into the cup of tea in front of him with a delicate twist of the not so delicate spoon. The cafe, while not a picturesque one, was the type found all over England, with blue and white tiling and selling bacon baps in the mornings. It was currently two o’clock, however, and so save from the two old ladies sitting by the window and the tired looking woman behind the counter, it was practically empty. Dakin quite liked it for that, seeing as he was able to seize two tables on a regular basis for all his law textbooks and papers. 

It was also somewhere people he knew didn't tend to go, which was just an added bonus to the cheap tea and coffee. 

“Truth be told, I didn't exactly expect you to come to a talk about World War two Oxford either.”

“I was in the area.”

“You had to pre-book tickets.”

“Which my mum did. Birthday present, you see.”

“I see.” 

It was pretty obvious that Irwin didn't see, but instead of calling him out on it, Dakin instead reached for the sugar.

“What made you come to Oxford then?”

“The talk was here-”

“No, but, like, talk _about_Oxford.”

“Well,” Irwin leaned his leg out, like he was getting comfortable for a long story, “You're already aware that I did my teaching course here, and, well, I just liked the city, so while I was here I looked into its history, and since the war was such a prominent factor for all of Britain, there was a lot of information.” 

“That’s it?”

“We don't all need to have an ulterior motive, Dakin.”

He winced, “No, but I expected a little… more, I suppose.” 

Irwin regarded him, “Well, if you _do_care, there was a member of the BBC recruiting team there. He was who I was speaking to before you caught me on the way out.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Apparently, they're looking for someone to host a new show about the ‘what ifs’ of history.”

“Sounds right up your ally.”

“It does, doesn't it?”

Dakin didn't say anything, taking a sip of his coffee.

“How are the others?”

“The others?”

“Yes, Timms, Rudge, Posner, Scripps, you know.”

Almost ashamed, Dakin looked to the table top.

“They're… fine, I suppose.”

“Don't keep in contact?”

“I did, but we’re all a bit busy at this point. Essays and such. We’ll probably meet up again when we all go home.” Dakin crossed one leg over the other, a lone hand reaching to his ankle as if to support his leg, or even to support his decision to lie. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s the issue with university. It feels a lot like you're splitting apart from your friends, when really it's the pressure from the work that does it.” 

Dakin nodded, hiding half his face with his cup.

“What are you up to, then,” Dakin said, feeling brave, “Other than reminiscing on something you didn't live through.”

“Reminiscing on the things that did, mostly.” 

“Oh?”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? A while since I was in front of a classroom or sucking up to a principal or head of department. I'm reminiscing now that it’s over, about what happened and what didn't.”

“I don't follow.” 

“I’m wondering about a lot of things, I suppose.”

“About Clutters?”

“About life. I wonder if Mrs. Lintott is still working there, but I don't suppose she’d be up to much else. I wonder if the craft shop on the Highstreet is still having its closing down sale that lasted two years. I wonder, sometimes, if Hector might have ended up in prison if he was younger and the accident hadn't happened. I wonder if I could have ended up worse, in the end, when the accident happened. I wonder what I’m doing tomorrow, or later, or about what I was thinking about on the way here. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.” 

Dakin thought about all this. 

“Do you wonder about what would have happened if we’d had that drink?” he hazarded an ask, and continued, “I still think of it often.”

“I do too,” Irwin had to admit, and met Dakin’s eyes, “Sometimes, I wonder too much.”

Dakin quirked an eyebrow.

“You do?”

“I do.”

“You know, I think I know of a way for us to stop wondering.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!” “Not good enough! Don’t mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.” - 'North and South' Elizabeth Gaskell

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this! With the rest of my September and October currently unoccupied with fics, I'm hoping to work on the final piece of 'the water' series. 
> 
> If you liked this, please do leave a comment, a bookmark and kudos, as they encourage me to write a lot more than just hits. 
> 
> “You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.” - Colette   
"And the pool answered, 'But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored.'" - 'The Disciple' Oscar Wilde  
“I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.” - 'Jane Eyre' Charlotte Bronte


End file.
